


Nine/Rose Drabbles

by gallifreyburning



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:31:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few vignettes of Nine and Rose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine/Rose Drabbles

The Doctor had catalogued at least two dozen variations of hand-holding with Rose Tyler, but most fell into three primary categories.

First, there was the practical grip, meant for keeping together in a tight spot, good for running toward trouble or away from danger. Palms pressed together, thumbs and fingers wrapped tight around the outside of each other’s hands.

Second, there was the comforting grip, meant for reassurance and a reminding that the other person was present, that they weren’t alone in facing whatever challenge was in front of them. Fingers intertwined and fingertips pressed against the back of each other’s hand, with the barest brush of palms.

And third, but certainly not least in the Doctor’s mind, was the hand-holding that Rose initiated during those moments when it served no practical purpose. For instance, on any given evening in the TARDIS kitchen she’d come to stand with him in front of the microwave while the popcorn popped, and she’d nonchalantly caress his fingertips with her own. Or afterward when they watched  _The Princess Bride_ (his choice, of course), and she’d plop down on the couch beside him. He’d already had his arm resting across the back of the pillows, so it wasn’t like he made a  _move_ on her or anything. She’d fuss until he took off his leather jacket so she could settle her head his shoulder and pull his arm down across herself. And when she spent the movie playing with his fingers and stroking his palm with her thumb  _just like that …_ well … impractical hand-holding was highly underrated, the Doctor decided. 

* * *

The Doctor’s face was beet red and his fingers shaking as he fumbled with the corset strings.

“Really, Rose, you don’t have to be  _this_ thorough, in terms of getting dressed to visit the court of Henry XIII. A nice frock with some velvet and lace would do just fine. You don’t see  _me_ putting on pantaloons and a doublet. The undergarments really aren’t that important in terms of —”

“Doctor,” she interrupted, turning her head and looking over her shoulder at him. “Just in case there’s an emergency and I end up in my skivvys, or somethin’. Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. And I don’t want to disrupt the space-time continuum with my underwire bra.”

Without warning, the Doctor yanked the corset strings tight. Rose squeaked in surprise, drawing in a shallow breath. “If you end up in your skivvys because of Henry VIII, I’ll … I’ll …”

Rose grinned, tongue poking out between her teeth and eyebrow arching. “You’ll do what, Doctor?”

“I’ll teach him a new religion,” the Doctor finished in a low voice.  

“You’d best tie a double-knot in that string, then,” Rose said, grinning even wider. 

* * *

Carrying her oversized hiking pack, the Doctor led Rose down the TARDIS corridor. He’d said hardly a word since they left London ten minutes ago.  Rose had a pretty good idea why he was so quiet: she was  _moving_   _into_ his TARDIS. He’d invited her to travel with him, there was no question about that. But she had the distinct feeling he didn’t mean to invite her hairbrush and her lip gloss and her underwear — or anything about her that bore the hint of domesticity.

The Doctor stopped in front of the room where she’d taken a nap after Platform One and Cassandra and the end of the world. “Did you like this one? There are plenty of others. You might as well pick one you like.”

Rose peered down the corridor, which stretched out of sight. “Well, this is pretty close to the kitchen and the media room, yeah?”

The Doctor shrugged. “It is today. Might not be tomorrow.” He glanced at the ceiling with a fond half-smile. “Depends on how the old girl’s feeling.”

“What about your room? Are you somewhere down there?” she asked, nodding at the seemingly infinite corridor.

Wrinkling his forehead, the Doctor shifted from one foot to another. “This room or not?” he snapped, his words impatient, an ineffective attempt to hide his discomfort.

“This one’s great,” Rose replied with a shrug. Fine. Let him be embarrassed.

“Right, in you go,” he said, nudging open the door with his shoulder and stepping across the threshold to drop her backpack on the floor.

Rose followed him inside and came to a dead stop, mouth agape. “Are you sure this is the same room?”

“I think I know my own ship, thanks,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “You not happy with it now?”

“No,” she said, a grin breaking over her face. “No, I love it!”

Before, the space had been comfortable enough, but much like a hotel room. Generic. Unremarkable. Plain furniture, plainly colored, plainly arranged.

Now, the room was lush with details, every one of them exactly what Rose would have chosen if she’d been given the choice: a pale pink comforter instead of white, a four-poster bed, a dressing table with nooks and crannies for her makeup and ponytail holders. The closet door was cracked just enough to reveal clothes, each item looking as though it had been plucked off the rack of her favorite store.

“Did you do this?” she gasped, throwing open the closet door and touching the hoodies inside.

“Do what?” The Doctor stared at Rose in genuine puzzlement.

“Everything’s different. Everything’s  _perfect!”_ she said, dashing to the bed, flinging herself onto the comforter.

The Doctor leaned against the bedpost and crossed his arms, watching her as she experimentally squished feather pillows. “The TARDIS wanted you to feel welcome, I suppose.” He paused. “The old girl likes you. She’s glad you’re here, Rose.”

His accent had deepened a little and he was staring at her, eyes very dark and very blue at the same time. Suddenly conscious of the fact that she was wallowing on a bed in front of the Doctor, she sat up and stared back. Her cheeks were burning, but she didn’t look away – she was flustered, but more than anything, she was curious.

The Doctor blinked and cleared his throat, the corners of his mouth turning up into a too-wide smile. “Welcome aboard, Rose.”

With that, he left the room.

* * *

I just imagine that on the TARDIS (before Doomsday), there was a little gym that the TARDIS had created for the companions at some point — she’d resigned herself to the fact that the Doctor was bringing in strays of a physiologically inferior species, and decided if he was dead-set on doing this repeatedly, the least she could do was give them the facilities to help them keep up with the Doctor. 

Of course, the Doctor never really paid attention to that little gym room, because he never needed it. 

But Rose did go in there and jog on the treadmill on a regular basis (it took her a while to figure out the controls, all circular Gallifreyan writing, but after a bit of trail and error she’d worked it out), when they were just idling in the vortex and the Doctor was off tinkering in his workshop and whatever. 

The Doctor didn’t  _realize_ she went in there occasionally, though, until he was in the middle of soldering some complicated circuitry, and decided he needed another set of hands to hold a few wires together (and also he’d been making brilliant remarks aloud for the last few minutes, decided it made him seem daft to share his brilliance with an empty room, and it would be markedly  _less_ daft if there was another pair of ears there, and a mouth to make appropriate noises of appreciation for his brilliance). 

So he tracked down Rose in the little gym, and there she was jogging on the treadmill — _bouncing_ on the treadmill, actually — he’d never noticed how much  _bouncing_  happened, during the times they were running toward or away from trouble, because she was usually a step behind him or beside him. 

It was magnificent, really — all the bouncing, her long stride, the way her arms were churning, her face glowing with a sheen of sweat and her attention so focused — and the Doctor just stood there, staring, his mouth hanging open in an entirely dignified manner. 

Later Rose told him that he’d made a choking noise, but the Doctor is  _entirely_ certain he did no such ridiculous thing, but  _somehow_ she became aware of the fact that he was there. Not just aware of, but startled by. Her head turned, her eyes popped open wide and her legs went right out from under her. The belt on the treadmill kept turning just long enough that she shot off the back, flew into the side of the Andromedan sauna.

The Doctor, having completely forgotten about whatever needed soldering, spent the rest of the afternoon plastering the scrapes on her knees and being impressive in the kitchen instead, baking Gallifreyan twarg-spice cookies for her while she sat at the table in the TARDIS kitchen, grinning at him.

And from then on, anytime Rose went off to the gym to exercise, the Doctor made a point to keep her company. And it wasn’t because of the bouncing or the way beads of sweat rolled adorably down her nose — of course it wasn’t, and if anyone suggested otherwise, the Doctor would deny it vehemently — but just because he was worried about the possibly faulty machinery, and whether she might get injured again, and didn’t want her to be alone.

* * *

The TARDIS needs a refuel, and they manage to get to Cardiff 1983, except for some reason the rift isn’t enough this time. 

“It’ll just be a few hours. Days, at the most,” the Doctor says.

Ten months later, they’re still waiting. The Doctor’s still sleeping on the couch, and Rose has the bed in their one-bedroom flat. And he thought he’d loathe it,  _domestic_ and  _average_ and  _day-to-day,_ it’d been so long since he’d even dipped a toe into that kind of life. 

But Earth is nothing like Gallifrey, and Rose is nothing like the family he once had there. She’s different, in every possible way. And he’s settled into the rhythm of their days, breakfast and work (well, Rose is working, the Doctor is working on the TARDIS), and dishes and sometimes a night out at the pub with the friends Rose has made. When he grouses at her about the wash, she grins and her tongue rests on the edge of her lips and he might end up folding her clothes, but he absolutely draws the line at her knickers. 

He doesn’t need much rest — superior Time Lord physiology — and occasionally, when she’s sleeping, he stands in the door to her room and looks at his pink and yellow girl. Wonders what it would be like if this was just his life, here with her, forever. 

Because some days, that prospect doesn’t feel as terrifying as it did before.

Some moments, it’s something he almost wants.


End file.
